


The Five Times Madison Clark Needed a Drink, and the One Time She Didn't

by MaddieFrickenClark



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholism, Child Abuse, Depression, F/M, FTWD, FearTWDFamily!VerseAU, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Self Harm, Sex, Smoking, Sociopathy, Underage Drinking, a heap of spirits are drunk, alcoholic Madison Clark, domestic abuse, fear the walking dead, feartwd, madison's screwed up past, poor maddie, references to, warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8658388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddieFrickenClark/pseuds/MaddieFrickenClark
Summary: Abused, scarred, broken and alone, Madison Clark seeks solace in the bottle. She's an alcoholic, she's given up trying to deny it, but he stills believes that she has a second chance. FearTWD AU.





	

The Five Times Madison Clark Needed A Drink, And The One Time She Didn't 

The first time Madison needed a drink she was only fourteen, maybe even thirteen, her memories of these years were blurred. It wasn't that she hadn't had one before, she had had plenty. That was what you got when your father was a drunk. It wasn't her first drink, it was just the first drink that she craved. The first drink that she longed for. The first drink that she actually felt that she needed.

She'd pinched it from the liquor cabinet. It was a bottle of cheap vodka, half empty. The first half was probably the reason why she needed it in the first place. He'd probably downed it, and in turn, taken out his drunken frustration on her.

He'd thrown a glass at her, she'd been trying to study when he had demanded a refill. She had jumped up and slapped him hard across the face. He recoiled, she had never retaliated before. Would she have quickly topped up the glass if she were to repeat the day’s events? No she wouldn't, she would have stood her ground, she knew that he didn't need another glass.

She ended up pulling shards of glass from her upper arm, the pain didn't phase her, she was used to it, and she was used to abuse much worse. She never cried, she'd grown cold, oblivious to her emotions. She took a shard, a long pointed splint of glass, and ran it over her forearm. She didn't flinch, she felt nothing.

She remembered her first glass of the flat, clear liquid. It had been nice, refreshing. The burning sensation rough at the back of her dry throat. One glass had quickly become two, then three, four. She soon decided to drink straight from the bottle.

Her head grew heavy, her vision blurred, she felt nothing. For the first time in her entire life it seemed as though all of the pain was gone, all of her woes, forgotten. She wasn't hurting anymore, actually she felt quite carefree. 

She had intended for it to be one drink, but before she blacked out, she knew the solace the liquor had given her was too real to be ignored.

X-X-X-X

The second time had come years later. Sure, she had needed a drink before, but never in the same desperate way. 

It was her wedding night, she was supposed to be happy, she'd just married the man she claimed was 'the man of her dreams'. His name was Stephen Clark, he was a builder from Los Angeles. She supposed he was a good man, he seemed nice enough, but she honestly didn't feel a spark. There had never been a connection between the two, she had accepted his proposal out of pure need. A need to feel wanted.

The wedding had been a blur, a series of people she barely knew talking about things she couldn't care less about. Forged smiles during wedding photos, although she swore that she tried her hardest to make her's real.

She leaned back against the wall of the bathroom in the hotel suite they had booked. She squeezed her eyes shut, she was still dressed in a godawful dress that Stephen's mother had picked out. She ran her fingers through her mass of dyed blonde curls, a heap of bobby pins tumbled out. Her hairstyle was as fake as her love for the groom.

She was surprised that he had wanted to marry her, she had said yes immediately though. She thought that she'd never have a second chance. She couldn't turn down the opportunity. She was better off unhappy and with someone than unhappy and alone. 

He hadn't wanted to make love to her. Hadn't wanted to have sex with her, she corrected quickly, as it was only love making if they loved each other. She'd come up to her room ready for a few meaningless moments before they both fell to sleep on their own sides of the bed. He had claimed that he had a headache. She'd retreated to the bathroom clutching a bottle of champagne that she had intended to share.

She felt the last drop of the Moët land at the back of her mouth. An overly glamorous, frivolous drink, not her first choice. She leaned over and slipped a bottle of scotch from the bathroom cabinet. She'd stashed it there when they first arrived.

A quick twist and the lid was off. She began downing it quickly, basking happily in its familiarity. Mouthful after mouthful she began to feel weightless again. She knew that if she had just a drop too much she could end it simply, effortlessly. She contemplated the thought, did she really want to die? 

X-X-X-X

For time number three even her usual stiff liquor wasn't enough to mask the pain, the hopelessness, the loss. They had all looked at her sadly, shaking their heads, murmuring about her being 'that poor lady'. A doctor had approached her, he said that it could happen to anyone, he said that there was nothing she could have done to prevent it.

She knew he was lying though, all of the stress that she'd been under, that must have been a factor. The occasional drink couldn't have helped, neither could the fact that she cried herself to sleep every night. She'd failed her child before she even got the chance to meet her.

A tiny body, so still, so lifeless, cradled in her mother's shaking arms. The woman's chest heaving with tears, her brain unable to fathom the gigantic loss. It felt that as soon as she had arrived the staff had returned to take her away. They were burying her baby, they were burying her goddamn baby. There was something entirely wrong with that statement.

As soon as she escaped the hospital she had driven home. She had thrown the door open and hurried straight toward the garage where she crouched, shaking, in the backseat of her car. She popped a bottle of tequila and gulped the liquid down like a baby drinking milk. She was messed up, she was fucking messed up. She was a terrible person, and she knew that terrible people didn't make good mothers.

She felt a sense of relief that her first born, a son, was still too young to properly comprehend the fact that she had been pregnant and now there was no baby. He would never need to know about the child that never was, about the bundle she had intended to love so dearly.

She needed a second bottle, something stronger, something that would cause her to black out. Something that could make her feel everything, but technically nothing at all.

X-X-X-X

Time four was just as bad. Suicide, she talked about it everyday at work. She was a school counsellor, a bitter irony. How was she expected to solve children's problems when she couldn't even solve her own?

She was suddenly a grieving widow, a single mother, someone who everyone felt sorry for. He stepped on the damn accelerator and thrusted himself toward death and suddenly everyone was bringing her fruit baskets. 

The strange thing was that she didn't even really miss him. She was sad, sure, but mostly for her two children who would never see their daddy again. She grieved for them, but not for her own spouse, or her own relationship. 

She'd barely been close with him their entire marriage, they worked during the day, and he came home late, sometimes even after she fell asleep. They were like two ships that passed in the night, aware of each other's existence but unaware of anything else. He was depressed, yeah she knew that, but suicidal? She couldn't believe that he had actually done it, taken his own life.

He'd left a note, but one sentence left a hell of a lot unsaid. She'd torn it up once she read it, but it was too late, his words were already ingrained at the back of her mind.

Lies, she'd blatantly lied to her children about him. They needed to see their father as a good, noble man, not as someone who didn't even love them enough to stick around. He fell asleep, she wondered if by saying it enough times she'd eventually believe it as well.

Both her babies were asleep and all of the hustle and bustle of apologetic neighbours were long gone. She breathed a sigh of relief and slipped unnoticed out of her bedroom and toward the liquor cabinet. She grabbed two bottles, a half empty whiskey and an unopened vodka. She'd been waiting all day for this.

With each sip a memory of Stephen faded, and soon enough she couldn't even picture his face. Everything was a euphoric blur with booze and grief. She then realised that she hadn't actually cried, not properly, not hot, raw, real tears. Did that mean something? She doubted it.

She lit a cigarette and held it between her chapped lips. She was sure that she looked like a mess, that if child services were to see her they'd take her babies, but she needed this. She needed an escape.

X-X-X-X

The fifth time had been fuelled with emotion. Marred by doubt. Tainted by her own failure. Addiction was in his genes, it ran in the goddamn family. She was an alcoholic, of course her son was going to turn out being a junkie.

She glanced forlornly out of the window in her lounge room. Did he ever think of her? Between hits did he wonder about his mother? About his sister? Maybe even about his father? She didn't like her reality, a one in which her son loved heroin more than his mommy. A reality where her baby boy sat in filth and squalor with a needle in his arm and an empty look his eyes. One where white powder defined his existence and where all her dreams for him had died.

She poured a glass of wine, not her drink of choice but she didn't really want her daughter or partner to see her sipping anything stronger at eleven o' clock in the morning. The liquid was red, a deep maroon, as red as the blood that ran through her veins. 

She began to sob, masking her tears with the glass. The liquor was nice, as smooth as silk or how it felt when his hands ran over her.

He was her one good thing, her constant, her stability. She was surprised that he wanted someone as broken as her. He was a kind man, laid back, gentle, while she was distant, stark, emotionless. They were complete opposites, but in other ways so similar.

It is going to get better, at least that was what he constantly told her, what he constantly tried to get her to believe. She shook her head, how was he to know?

She took another sip. Screw the glass, she decided as she scooped up the bottle and tilted it. The liquid flowed quickly down her throat. 

She was an alcoholic, a ruthless, messed up, damaged alcoholic. She didn't care though, it was too late to change who she was now. 

X-X-X-X

"Angel, are you alright?" His words were soft and fuelled by concern. He reached out and laid a hand against her upper arm, guiding her closer, into his embrace. 

He had found her standing before the liquor cabinet, her hand on the handle, her eyes dead, empty, gone. It had been strange to wake up and find her missing, not nestled close to his naked form. 

"Go away Travis," her tone was monotone, as vacant as her expression. She didn't want him here, she just needed a quick drink to take the edge off. She couldn't have him find out about her addiction, he'd leave her and then what? 

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me if you're okay." He sounded stern, that was rare for him.

"I'm fine, I'm goddamn fine, I'm fucking spectacular." she still didn't look at him.

"No you're not, it's three in the morning and you're standing with your hand on the handle of the liquor cabinet with dried tears on your cheeks."

"I just need a drink."

"No you don't, you need to take my hand and get into bed with me. You can cry if you'd like, you can talk to me or, if you decide, you can stay quiet but you don't need to drink anything."

"One glass?" And with that she broke down, tears streamed down her cheeks. She collapsed against him, soaking his bare chest in her desperate sobs.

He wrapped his arms around her, his skin brown against her pale white shoulders and felt her shake back and forth.

After what seemed like forever she grew still, everything was silent beside her snuffles. "You're right," she murmured. "I don't need the drink, do I?"

Travis shook his head, "you've got me, I'll help you more than cheap liquor ever will. You don't need to rely on alcohol anymore." He pressed his lips into her hair, "and if you ever want a drink just talk to me instead."

"I didn't know that you knew about the alcohol..."

"I know all about it, Maddie, I’ve know about it since I first moved in. You don't know how many nights I've found you passed out and had to carry you back to bed."

"You're not angry?"

He shook his head, "I just don't want you to be hurting anymore."

She leaned back against him, he was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She shouldn't be this lucky, "I love you so much Travis Manawa."

He squeezed her tighter, "I love you too Madison Clark."

She closed her eyes, he was right. She had him now, she didn't need the drink.


End file.
